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KRISHNA CORIOLIS#3: Flute of Vrindavan

Page 16

by Ashok K. Banker


  But a part of him could not accept the rejection, the sudden break in his profoundly transcendental state of self-fulfillment. Still absorbed in the trivial I-Want self-obsession of his immature human body, he succumbed to that most basic human emotion: disappointment. Angry with Yashoda for denying him the ecstasy of satisfactiong, he thrashed about, flying into a rage. He bit his quivering lips, hot tears spilling freely from his eyes, and kicked out blindly. His smallest toe accidentally struck the enormous earthen vat in which Yashoda had been churning the buttermilk a glancing blow and the vessel shattered to smithereens, churned yogurt flying everywhere. Yashoda exclaimed in surprise as the pieces and yogurt fell around her, even striking her on the back. She turned from the hot milk to see what had happened.

  By the time she looked around, Krishna was gone.

  At first she assumed he had gone back into the house to sulk. At such times, he would grumble to himself, sulk, and suck his thumb until he fell asleep. She cleaned up the kitchen, shaking her head at the waste of all the buttermilk and the vat, but she was in too good a mood to feel upset. Rather, she was amused at her little rascal’s tantrums. She decided that today everyone would have to go without buttermilk: they would enjoy hearing the story in place of their delicious drink!

  When she was done she went into the house and changed her apparel. Some of the buttermilk had spilled upon her as well and she had to wash up and clean herself off. By the time she was done, the sound of a commotion outside the house attracted her attention. Passing through the room in which Krishna had been asleep earlier, she realized now for the first time that he was no longer in the house. At once, she put two and two together and surmised that the commotion must surely have something to do with her little tyrant!

  Rushing outside, she saw some gopis from neighboring houses gathered outside, hands on their hips, chattering and complaining. When they saw her approach, they fell silent at once and looked at one another meaningfully.

  ‘What is it?’ she asked with a mother’s perennial concern. ‘What has he done this time?’

  They sighed and slapped their foreheads and pointed up the road. ‘He went in that direction,’ said one. ‘After he finished emptying out all the dahi handis in this lane.’

  Yashoda stared at them. All the dahi handis? There were a half dozen houses clustered around her estate. Surely Krishna couldn’t have finished all their dahi in such a short while? There was probably some misunderstanding.

  She ran up the lane in the direction they had pointed. On the way, she met more gopis, as upset as the first ones, coming out of their houses holding the broken pieces of their dahi handis and grumbling loudly about the antics of Yashoda’s little rapscallion. They saw Yashoda coming and one of them hailed her, pointing off the road into the grove. ‘I saw him going that way with his vanar sena,’ she said scathingly.

  Another one pointed out as she went past that her flowers were coming untangled from her hair. Yashoda ignored her, and ignored the flowers that fell out of her hair as well as her unravelling hair. Sweating now in the hot afternoon sun, she ran uphill into the grove that bordered their hamlet. Vanarsena, they had said. What did they mean? Vanarsena referred to the army of simian warriors that Rama Chandra of Ayodhya had raised to invade the island-kingdom of Lanka in order to retrieve his abducted wife Sita, in the legendary epic poem Ramayana composed by the sage Valmiki. What did that mean in this context? There were no more vanars left in the world. Like rakshasas and asuras of yore, they had grown extinct in that past age of Treta Yuga, and were no more to be found upon the mortal realm. It was believed that their only purpose had been to serve Rama Chandra, believed by many to be an avatar of Lord Vishnu The Preserver, in his battle against the evil Ravana. Their mission accomplished, they had allowed their species to fade from the earth. How could her baby have found vanars here and now?

  The answer came to her in the form of a great chittering as she plunged deeper into the grove. She knew at once what the sound meant. There was a great tribe of monkeys living in this grove and the neighbouring thickets. Since Gokuldham, like most of Vrajbhoomi, was rolling hillsides covered with grassy pastures the monkeys rarely ventured beyond these forested parts. Therefore their numbers grew dense and considerable at times, and they could become quite fiercely competitive as more of them competed for limited living space.

  Right now, it seemed as if all the monkeys in Gokul had gathered here in this grove, judging from the cacophony of sound. She could see them in the trees above, their dark shapes thickly clustered on the branches and tree tops, their tails hanging, their mouths open to issue an endless litany of sound. What had upset them so greatly?

  She soon found out the reason.

  She came into a small clearing where the sun shone through eaves in large fan-shaped beams which caught motes of dust and illuminated the darker recesses indirectly. Within this gloamy illumination sat her little Krishna. Somehow he had managed to drag several large vessels of dahi with him all the way up here. She could not fathom at first how he could have done so. Even Balarama was not in sight this time to share the blame. She was able to guess the answer from the sight that now met her eyes. Krishna sat on the base of a rice-husking mortar to raise himself as high as possible. Suspended in mid air around him were several of the dahi handis, most already depleted. Only the last handi contained a little dahi and even that was disappearing fast. Krishna was scooping out dahi with his own hands and feeding it to his new found friends.

  Vanarsena indeed!

  The monkeys had formed a chain of tails and limbs and were hanging suspended from the largest tree in the grove, dangling down until they could reach their benefactor. The lowest one opened his mouth to receive a scoop of the dahi, which Krishna popped into his mouth, then chittered in thanks and scampered up the tree trunk. He was replaced at once by another eager-mouthed monkey.

  Apparently, this process had been repeated several dozen times already, judging from the profusion of empty dahi handis and monkeys gathered around. Yet it would hardly be enough to satiate the many remaining monkeys who were still unfed. This was the reason for the cacophony. The monkeys who were farther back in the queue were grumbling loudly about waiting their turn!

  Yashoda stood and took in this astonishing sight for a long moment. She could not understand how the dahi handis were floating suspended in mid air around Krishna. Then again, if a child of his tender age could pick up and drag so many dahi handis all the way up this hill, then it was as impossible for him to make them float in mid air. That was the least of her concern. What upset her tremendously was the fact that he was not only stealing once again from her neighbors but that he was stealing not even to gratify his own greed but simply to feed monkeys. Monkeys!

  This was too much.

  She looked around and found a stout stick. She broke off a protruding twig or two from the side, then hefted it. Yes, it would do nicely now. She raised it and began making her way towards her little son.

  Krishna was totally absorbed in his task. Standing one legged on the mortar, partially lit by the smoky beams of sunlight descending from the high trees, he looked like a performer enacting some epic role in a Sanskrit drama. For an instant, as she approached, Yashoda almost thought she could hear music playing in the background, exactly as there would be if this really were a dramatic performance. Flute music, to be precise. But that was impossible of course. She must be imagining it, or perhaps one of the gopas in the valley below was playing the flute as usual to soothe the cows and the wind had carried the sound here briefly.

  She approached the mortal from behind, waving the stick. Krishna still had not seen her. But the monkeys had!

  At the sight of a human waving a big stick, the monkeys suddenly lost all interest in the dahi feeding. Shrieking madly and leaping from branch to branch, they began an exodus. In moments, the large majority of them were escaping through the treetops, branches quivering in their wake, leaves drifting free, dust motes swirling in the beams of su
nlight around Krishna. Even the monkey who was next in queue for his mouthful suddenly caught sight of Yashoda approaching, mistakenly assumed that her angry gaze and upheld stick were meant for him, shrieked in panic and scampered away on all fours, leaving a dust trail.

  Krishna frowned, puzzled and peered after him. ‘Vanar come!’ he called out plaintively. ‘Come eat dahi! Nice-nice tasty-tasty!’

  All the vanars had suddenly lost their appetite. Or perhaps they had remembered a monkey marathon they had forgotten about: they competed hotly to race one another in a bid to get as far away from the angry mother with the raised stick as possible.

  At last Krishna realized that someone was behind him and turned around.

  At the sight of Yashoda’s angry sweating face and the raised stick, he gaped in surprise.

  Suddenly, all the floating dahi handis came crashing down to the ground, making a loud racket. Most of them being made of baked earth, they shattered on the ground. Whatever force had been holding them up in the air seemed to have deserted them all of a sudden.

  In another moment, all the vanarsena had deserted Rama Chandra, leaving him alone to face his legendary foe.

  Krishna stared at Yashoda. He gaped at her. He had never seen her so angry before. Or brandishing a stick. The stick appeared to be very thick and very strong. If she hit him with it, he had no doubt it would hurt considerably.

  He had no wish to feel how hard.

  Leaping off the mortar, he jumped down on the ground.

  With a yell that rivaled the shrieks of his monkey friends, he ran.

  The great asura lord gave pursuit, picking up her hem with her free hand to avoid tripping over it.

  The chase did not last long. The boy could have raced ahead at any speed he chose, or flown away, or leaped to another planet if he so pleased. But the fact that he was being pursued by his mother seemed to weigh heavier on him than the fear of her punishment. Not coincidentally, the Sanskrit word for punishment was the same as the word for stick: danda. It was Yashoda’s anger that Krishna feared far more than her danda.

  And so, not far ahead, he slowed, then stopped. He was crying profusely, his kohl smeared around his eyes, giving him the appearance of a badger. He stood in the shade of a peepal tree, rubbing his knuckles into his eyes, face wet with tears and slime.

  Yashoda came running up, saw him standing there, and stopped to catch her breath. She had a catch in her side. Though she had slimmed down considerably in the past few months, she had still a way to go before regaining the slender waist she had sported before entering motherhood. As for her hips, they would never return to their pre-maternal narrowness and excess weight tended to collect there, making it difficult for her to run this fast. She got her breath back and saw how miserable Krishna was: she realized she had scared him badly with the stick. Mischevious though he was, willfully he had stolen the dahi handis and taken them into the grove to feed his monkey friends, no doubt as some kind of retribution for her ignoring him when busy with the churning, he was not malevolent or malicious. The instant he saw his mother with a big danda, all the mischief had fled at once. Now, he was genuinely scared.

  She stopped for a moment and marveled at a boy who could face giantesses with poison milk and wind demons who could carry you up to the sky but feared his own mother. Then again, all boys feared their own mother, even when they were no longer boys!

  Still, she knew she could not succumb to his tears. She must impress upon him that he had done wrong. Stealing milk products was the worst crime in Vraj. Everyone made a livelihood from these products; they were no less than gold or silver to a jewel trading community. This time, Krishna had gone too far. He had not even stolen the dahi for himself to eat, he had simply taken it out of petty spite. She could not risk him throwing such tantrums every time he was denied her attention for a moment or two.

  So she grasped his arm, seizing him firmly but not roughly, crouched down to his height, and proceeded to explain right and wrong to him. He kept glancing at the stick still clutched in her hand and after a few moments, she threw the stick aside so he would know that she did not mean to strike him. She had never meant to strike him, truth be told.

  He listened intently and as she continued berating him, his tears subsided. By and by, he stopped sniffling and listened to her. In response to her questions whether he would behave himself from now on, he shook his head vigorously. But once the fear was past and he understood there would be no hitting with that scary big stick, she saw a glimmer of defiance creep back into his dark eyes again. She knew that look well. It meant that he had agreed and accepted her terms...for now. But he would likely do it again and yet again.

  She had to give him some serious deterrent. Something that would rob him of the illicit pleasure of theft and mischief and make him feel it was not worth the punishment.

  Her gaze passed over the stick and discarded it. She could never strike him with that thing. Not her baby. Never.

  Then she remembered the mortar on which he had been standing when she found him. Walking him back to that place, she proceeded to tie him to the mortar with a rope. She intended to show him how effectively she could curtail his freedom and restrict his movements. If there was one thing her little Krishna hated, it was being confined to one place for long. This would seem like a far worse punishment than the stick. She passed the rope around his slender little frame, intending to tie him to the mortar.

  When she reached the end, she found that the rope was too short to tie properly.

  She looked around and saw another length of rope. A pile of hemp rope lay discarded here, probably left by someone after some task. She joined the first length to the second, extending the overall length and then began to tie the rope to the mortar.

  Again, the rope was too short.

  She frowned. This was odd. Adding the new length of rope should have made the whole sufficient to tie. Yet it seemed to have reduced in length rather than increasing! How was that possible?

  She tied a third piece of rope - and met with the same result. Once more the rope was just too short to tie a knot.

  Again and again, she continued trying, until finally, she had joined enough ropes together to tie up all the monkeys in Gokuldham. It was to no avail: she still could not tie a simple knot to secure Krishna to the mortar.

  She looked at her son.

  He was looking into the distance, his chubby cheeks dimpled by a mischievous smile.

  She took his chin in her hand and raised his face. She saw the look of mischief on his face. It had not taken long for him to regain his confidence!

  ‘I know you are responsible for the rope not being long enough,’ she said softly. ‘I saw the way you made the dahi handis float in air, and I know of the things you are capable of. I know what I saw when I looked into your open mouth that day, the day the wind demon attacked you. I know who you really are.’

  The look of mischief faded to be replaced by an inscrutable expression. He said nothing, merely listened to her voice.

  ‘I know you can do almost anything you set your mind to,’ she said. ‘I know that I am merely a mortal woman and no match for your divine abilities...’

  He stared at her with great big soulful eyes, as if drinking in her emotions.

  ‘Yet,’ she went on after a pause and a sigh, ‘yet I am also your mother in this life. Whatever else you may be in eternity, in this era you are my little son. And I your mother. And in order to be your mother I must teach you certain things, how to behave, how to respect your elders, how to speak well and live well, how to do well...It is my dharma, just as your dharma in this form is to be a good son. Therefore, my Lord, my divine Supreme Paramatma, I pray to you, grant me this boon. Let me be your mother. Let me teach you what little I know about being human. Let me show you the way, as I know it. We may or may not enact these roles ever again, but for now, for this one short wink of an eyelash, we are united in this relationship of blood and flesh and nurturing, and I must do my part. Threfor
e, my Lord, my Bhagwan, I beseech you, work with me. Help me help you. Teach me to teach you. Show me how to show you the way.’

  Krishna looked at her for a long moment, saying nothing. He looked at her sweating face, the flowers wilted and faded and fallen, the undone hair, the dusty garments, and suddenly a look of profound embarrassment and shame came over his little features. He bowed his head slowly, his chin dipping gradually as he came to realize how he had troubled and vexed his mother. It did not matter if he had intended to do so or not, the fact was he had done so and that was all that mattered. She was vexed, troubled, harassed and weary. She only wanted to teach him this lesson and then they could resume their loving relationship as before.

  He nodded once, acquiescing. Then held out his little hands.

  Yashoda looked down and saw the rope had grown in length. Now there was more than enough to tie a knot. She slipped the knot into place, finding the rope seeming to move almost of its own accord, the knot forming perfectly on the first try, without needing any adjustment.

  Then she stepped back. Krishna was tied to the mortar now.

 

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